It was a characteristic I learned early in life — my superpower of masking how I really felt. I became an expert at the art of not letting anyone know what I was thinking. I hid behind that mask often, always appearing sweet, kind, naïve. No one had any idea what lived underneath.
My parents never accepted anything less than perfection. They took it personally if any of us were sick or made a mistake. It wasn’t allowed, so I learned to hide it well. Wearing your heart on your sleeve was for the weak — not for battle‑hardened kids like me. I didn’t have the luxury of showing vulnerability, not with abusive parents or people who took advantage of my kindness. I certainly couldn’t show weakness to my ex‑husband Al; he would have used it to destroy me.
I stopped shedding tears years ago. I joke that I cried so much I ran out, but the truth is simpler: life taught me that tears don’t help. They only make things worse. Show an ounce of weakness and people attack. So I stopped crying. On the rare occasion I do, the people around me know it’s serious — because they never see it happen. I’ve learned to pretend I’m okay so well that sometimes I even convince myself.
I became so good at it that I convinced my therapist and doctor I was fine. They thought I was handling everything life threw at me. They didn’t know that behind the mask was a sea of uncertainty, fear, and scrambled wiring doing its best to take me down. Hiding was a mistake — one I learned the hard way.
Pretending everything was fine kept my doctor from giving me the medication I actually needed. Telling my therapist I was okay led her to praise me for “getting things back together.” I didn’t see the warning signs either: three speeding tickets in a few months, near‑misses on the road, two totaled cars in two weeks. I brushed it all off. I told myself I was fine. I ignored the mania, the lack of sleep, the days without eating. All of it needed attention, but I was too busy pretending.
Everything was fine — until it wasn’t.
When my mind finally crashed, it was epic. I melted down completely. Reduced to tears and hyperventilating, unable to remember where I was or what I was supposed to be doing. It hit fast, hard, and without warning. I turned into a babbling mess, struggling to remember my own name. I hadn’t seen it coming.
Being admitted to the hospital was almost a relief. I didn’t have to pretend anymore. I could take off the mask and just be me.
“Fake it till you make it” might work in some situations, but next time I won’t ignore the warning signs. I’m not letting myself be reduced to a rag doll again. No more masks. What you see now is what you get — like it or not.
I’m done hiding. What you see now is the real me,
K.
I'm Still Here. Somehow... 